


The Drowned Wolf

by SwordoftheMorning



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Divergence - Robert's Rebellion, Character Death, Explicit Language, Multi, Pre-Canon, R plus L equals J
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2019-01-21 03:15:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12448539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwordoftheMorning/pseuds/SwordoftheMorning
Summary: Robert's Rebellion has begun. Eddard Stark left the Eyrie to sail North and rally men to the rebel cause, before being caught in a great storm. Now the rest of Westeros believe him dead altering the course of the Rebellion. Now, Eddard wakes to find a Westeros severely changed in his absence.





	1. Benjen I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, thanks for taking a look at my fic. This is not the original chapter of this story but in writing the original I realized that I needed to restructure it. I'm much happier with the current order of the chapters and feel it will balance the warfare, politics and magic in the setting much better. Either way I hope you enjoy my fic and offer any feedback on how it can be improved.

He was roused by his dreams of spring by his guard’s loud shouting. That was the signal that dawn was just arriving and the first battle of this rebellion would arrive for Benjen. He was not ready and his hand shook even as he cleared the sleep from his eyes. They’d marched down the Kingsroad at a thundering pace until they were deep within the Riverlands travelling days and nights with only the shortest of stops. Word had been received by scouts of the small Darry host moving with dragon banners towards the fording of the Trident. The opposing army had left Castle Darry two nights ago and, as far as Benjen and his commanders knew, had yet to find out that they were so close. They may outnumber the enemy nearly four to one but the ambush would still be vital to victory. 

Benjen donned his armour with the help of his friend Howland Reed; a man who was the size to be a squire even if the Crannogman was older than most yet to be claim knighthood. He was one who was not suited to ride, but had done so with a determination that was unequalled in the Northern host. It was the kind of fervour that his sister could inspire when she was at her best. Once ready Benjen exited his room into the tent proper where his commanders waited, nearly all with tired eyes. That was, apart from Lord Roose, who’s eyes were steely and attentive as ever. Roose was of House Bolton; a family reviled in much of the North for their cruelty and ambition, but had offered good council so far. He was less than a decade older than Benjen, young to be a lord in what had been times of peace. Now, Benjen was a lord as well, and one who had only just seen fifteen name days. He remembered the raven’s well.

 

The first raven arrived as he broke his fast and gave news of Lyanna’s kidnapping, the words at first sent confusion through Benjen. No those words weren’t right; it wouldn’t be a kidnapping if the Dragon Prince was involved.

The second raven arrived as any other would but held more bitter tidings, ‘Dark wings and dark words my little lord,’ the Maester, Luwin, had said. He was the new Maester of Winterfell, though of an age with former Maester Walys, who had handled much of his learned education and died of a fever the previous year. He was clearly apprehensive and Benjen feared the worst. News had already come of Brandon’s arrest and he’d found himself plagued with nightmares of what may have befallen his oldest brother. Even worse had been the news of the accusation that the Crown Prince Rhaegar had kidnapped his sister, Lyanna. Benjen knew that was not the truth, Lya had cried at the Prince’s voice at Harrenhal and later she’d confided how sweet she was for the handsome man with silver hair. This was his fault, he shouldn’t have listened to Lya and just told father. ‘This will not be easy tidings. Are you ready?’

Benjen swallowed and hardened himself to the news. ‘Tell me, I want to know,’ His voice still had some of the pitch of one who had not yet come into his manhood. It annoyed him, and made him sound too young and petulant. 

The maester shuffled the letter to his hand grasping it as he delivered the news, ‘I am sorry my lord. The letter speaks of your father and your brother. The King has executed them for treason.’ The world shattered and his breathe caught in his throat. The letter slipped through his fingers and fell to the table with silent thunder.   
The boy swallowed with a shuddering sob, ‘no, they’ve done nothing wrong. Why would this happen?’ Luwin walked around the tale and gathered him with one arm in an embrace. Benjen felt with a second more he would be crying like a babe.

‘What goes on in the King’s mind is beyond our reckoning, or so I’ve heard. He’s called for your brother’s head as well, but he is in the Eyrie, far outside the King’s reach. Lord Arryn struck me as a man of reason and loyalty from your brother’s letters. It will be war instead; no king has ever acted so callously without rebuke.’ The maester lectured in a soft voice. Even with the comfort Ben still feared for Ned’s life. War, war was coming to the Seven Kingdom’s and all because he hadn’t told his father that Lyanna wanted to flee to Rhaegar’s arms.

‘We call the banners then, to wait for brother’s arrival?’ Benjen asked, he wasn’t feeling himself, but he knew he must be useful.

‘That would seem prudent, my lord,’ Maester Luwin replied. The lords gathered quickly at the news, and Benjen had never seen the Northmen so angry and in such numbers. Rickard Stark was a somewhat controversial lord, but all united at the injustice of his death. First among the noble houses were Lord Cerwyn and then Lord Bolton, with eyes of grey frost. The latter a surprise to move so quick and with such loyalty, but Benjen was glad to have council from one who felt more like a peer. 

The third raven arrived late in the evening as Benjen ate with the lords who had yet arrived. Luwin arrived late and had quickly called him away. ‘What is it this time?’ Benjen commanded of the Maester, he was practicing even harder to be a good acting lord of Winterfell.

Luwin looked as if he’d been strangled to get out the words. He’d taken the deaths of father and Brandon harshly and he knew the Maester was sore to give him any more dark tidings. The aging man had been supportive even if his council brought little comfort. ‘It’s your brother, Eddard, Benjen, a raven’s reached us from the Sister’s. His ship hit a storm and they presume him drowned. I am so sorry, Benjen.’ 

More foul tidings on black winged bastards. He did not think that he had more tears to shed but for Ned they fell anew. ‘Gather the more prominent of the lords; we must decide what must be done,’ he said that at least would give him time to think. He was the Lord of Winterfell now and it would be him who must march to war. 

Here the lords were, Lord Cerwyn and Cassel, Lord Ryswell and Dustin and Bolton. A smaller group than was ideal, but it had only been a short time and decisions had to be made now. A lord must be decisive Benjen knew. Even if he, as a third son, had thought lordship of Winterfell a far off thought, he had seen his father act with his authority. He knew it was action that the lords of the North would respect. ‘I will lead us to war,’ he said with finality, once the lords were gathered in a more private room with him and Maester Luwin. 

‘That much is you duty, but it is the how that remains to be seen.’ Lord Edwyle Cerwyn growled, ‘we will all march to war, but I’ll not endanger my men to the command of a green boy who’s not prepared.’ 

Benjen had steeled himself for criticis,m silencing Lord Dustin when he was about to speak on his behalf. He had watched his father hold court many times, and knew it must be him. ‘I may be inexperienced in war but I am the Stark in Winterfell and it will be my blade that ends the Targaryens.’ He had practiced the words and more, others he had memorised from his father. ‘Do not test my command Lord Edwyle, I am your liege.’

The older man kept his eye and it took all of Benjen’s force of will not to look away. The lord’s eyes were a cool blue but held a fire. He was by far the oldest of the lords present and was even older than Luwin. His age did not dull his words. Finally he growled, ‘I see fear in your eyes Lord Stark, but less than my son Medger when he was your age. You can’t let the men see it when you lead us or they’ll never die for you.’ 

The young lord paused then breathed a light sigh of relief. He was glad to have garnered some support but even so he should not show too much relief. ‘I shall be sure not to my lord, but be sure not to question my authority in front of other lords again.’ A line he had taken almost word for word from his father, ‘the question is when we will march and how best to prepare for a war that has dawned just as winter has come.’ 

Lord Creighton Cassel rapped his hands on the table, the man had the first hints of grey hair, ‘We need to wait, gather as many of our men as possible before marching, if we’re to face the armies of the south.’ 

‘I would ere on caution as well my lords,’ Maester Luwin replied, ‘but we must also consider that the longer we gather at Winterfell, the more food our army will eat. We should not starve the smallfolk when our food supplies are already low.’ 

He made a good point. The year of false spring had not given the North enough time to recover from the last winter; the year would be hard enough on the smallfolk without new mouths to feed. Either way, Benjen did not want to wait too long, he could not sit here feeling useless while men died south in his family’s name. 

‘If we cannot wait we should march as soon as we are ready,’ Lord Willam Dustin stated, ‘the sooner we have justice for Lord Rickard, Eddard and Brandon the better.’ 

‘That was not what I was suggesting Lord Dustin,’ Luwin replied, already seeming tired of those eager for war. Benjen could see his point well. If it had been another lord’s family who had been executed he would have been just as eager for vengeance. Already having known the loss of family it seemed foolish. 

‘Swift action is needed, but not hasty,’ Lord Roose said, as if unravelling a puzzle with his mind, ‘we should not discount the benefits of marching sooner. We will need the lords of the Vale and Riverlands to be successful in this war and neither will have the unity that we possess.’ 

‘Very insightful,’ agreed the well built Lord Rodrick Ryswell, ‘I met Lord Hoster at Harrenhal, he is a shrewd man. Even with Brandon betrothed to his first daughter he will wait to see how the winds blow before committing, we should help him make a choice.’

Creighton huffed disparagingly, ‘You suggest marching on those Riverland lords declaring for the crown. You’d sooner push him to declare for Mad Aerys.’

‘Or a show of strength would make him consider where his loyalties should lie,’ countered Lord Willam. ‘Benjen might even bag a trout for his trouble.’ The young lord of Winterfell felt himself blush red in the face, Willam grinned back at him. 

‘The fact is that we cannot bring to bear even half our strength before the loyalist Riverland houses meet, or worse make it to King’s Landing.’ Creighton snarled his moustache wobbling. 

‘What Riverlords are most likely to join the Targaryens,’ Benjen asked.

‘My lord you cannot...’ Creighton started again, but Benjen nodded to Maester Luwin to speak. He could feel Lord Bolton’s eyes on him again. 

‘Both the Whent and Darry have close links to the Targaryen’s through the Kingsguard, and the Mootons of Maidenpool have always been loyal to them as well, any more than that I cannot say.’ Maester Luwin said thoughtfully. 

‘All near the mouth of the Trident. It would take too long to meet them with enough force, without risking them having near our numbers.’ Benjen said despondent, before thinking for a second, ‘unless the Arryn’s can support us when we reach there.’

‘I’m not sure we can guarantee that,’ The old Maester replied, ‘we know he had to march on Gulltown and the Vale is perilous to cross with opposition.’   
Benjen considered the point. They would have to wait then, gather there forces for a time when Lord Arryn was more prepared. That might be at least a month; he would have to ask Maester Lu...

‘Mayhaps there is another way to strike the loyalists,’ the Flayed Lord interrupting his thoughts, ‘Lord Ryswell, Lord Dustin, if the majority of your forces still lie in your lands then we can ride now and meet them at Moat Cailin. From there we could ride south.’ 

Lord Rodrik Ryswell stroked his beard, ‘in my haste to reach here I did leave good men back. Two-thousand men plus the forces from the Barrowlands and the Neck would give us more than ten-thousand.’ It was convenient but through chance made for a decent plan. Both their eyes turned to Benjen with that said and he could feel the rest of the lords, even Lord Cerwyn, waiting for his verdict as well. They were deferring to him, and Benjen had never felt so much pressure weighing on him. 

‘If we are fast enough then we win the Riverlands and gain a foothold till Lord Arryn or Tully can meet us,’ he said rhetorically, ‘I have made my decision we march as soon as we are able.’ 

They’d readied fast leaving Winterfell only three days after, setting a blistering pace. He left Maester Luwin there, who counselled caution in the plan. He must choose which men he can trust and act accordingly, he had said. Each day on the road weighed heavy on him, making it clearer that the men he supped with had placed their lives in his hands. He was a boy of fifteen who a few moons ago would never have considered managing a modest keep, yet alone Winterfell and an army. At the same time he felt another pull, his sister was gods know where with Rhaegar Targaryen. With all the other Starks dead her place was in the North and Benjen would bring her home. 

He’d been careful to study the other lords as the new Maester said, Lord Cerwyn kept largely to himself but was brutally honest and a man who saw the truth of any situation, Lord Dustin was young, and japed and drank with all the men popular with young and old, Lords Ryswell and Bolton conversed often despite their gap in age , as did many of their men, the younger spoke softly and laughed little. For all his good advice, Benjen could not shake the feeling about the Lord of the Dreadfort. He always stared too long. 

It was agreed that Lord Cassell would wait at Moat Cailin for the rest of the Northern force with orders to relieve command to Lord Umber when he arrived, they would not march south sooner. This was mostly done to get him out of his hair; despite having ten wolves for his sigil he lacked their natural thirst for violence. If Lord Cassell seemed cheerful at the news his sons did not. Both Martyn and Rodrik continued south with him and despite neither being fiery in their anger, they were eager to avenge House Stark.

Benjen was glad when they reached Moat Cailin, for Howland Reed was there waiting for him, the man was a friend to all the Starks since Harrenhal. He made for better company than the council of Lord Bolton and had been vital as well for passing through the northern hills of the Riverlands unseen. There had been men watching in the Frey lands, he had told Benjen, and he knew how to avoid them. He’d been vexed that the detour lengthened their journey by a day but he saw the necessity. Lord Walder Frey’s reputation preceded him and it wasn’t flattering. The rest of their journey had continued without delay but Benjen had accepted when Lord Cerwyn, Ryswell and Bolton all advised him to shoot down any ravens and capture any scouts they encountered. Better to return them to their lords once the royalists had been dealt with, than risk them informing lords of shaky loyalty. They’d also been forced to take supplies from the locals, with force at times, in their travels to feed the army on the way. All had counselled him that it was necessity, though Benjen worried that it might be the northern bias against the south that old Maester Walys spoke of sometimes. Either way, they needed more food, and urgently. 

 

That brought them to their current camp which kept them close enough to the Darry forces so that they could intercept them just as they would be dreaming of setting camp and sleeping. The battlefield would lie only a short distance from the Trident, though where exactly they could not say till they were far closer. 

Benjen sat at the table with his lords, a map of the surrounding area, as best their scouts could judge, dominating the table. The land just north of the Trident was filled with hills and spotted forests, perfect for an ambush if timed well. They had organised this all in past nights their positions in the army as well. The position of the enemy, and the organisation of their baggage train that was vital to capture for food, where they would make camp, their own formation, all had been determined. Benjen found it helped his nerves to review it though, ‘We are ready then. Lord Willam commands the vanguard, Lord Bolton the left flank and Ryswell the Right. I’ll be in charge of the centre and Lord Cerwyn the reserve.’ The statements of plain truth sounded too much like questions to Benjen’s ears.

‘Then there is no more to be said, we know the plan,’ Lord Cerwyn growled, it seemed to be his natural tone, ‘let us make our final preparations then, rather than stay stuck here.’ He looked to Benjen, ‘you should make yourself seen in the camp, to give those who will die for you courage.’

‘I will, my lord,’ Benjen replied quietly. It was another hour before they left the camp and he made his rounds giving small talk and encouragement where he could. Howland said that he did well enough, but Benjen himself wasn’t so sure. 

His army marched close to the river, west of the Kings Road, so that they would engage the enemy from the flank they least expected confrontation from. The scouts had said that the Darry men had left more men in the rear than was normal for a marching army protecting its supplies, it was clear they were worried about an attack from behind. Once they found Darry’s exact position, Benjen ordered the army to form up. The positioning wasn’t perfect, they’d have preferred to hit them slightly earlier from the woods, this way they’d be forced to use the cover from a hill to obscure their majority. The enemy army created a brown scar on the green land, like the turned land from the plough of the Darry sigil. 

The scouts on the ridge of the hill gave the signal and the vanguard charged, the sounds of horse and men becoming a cacophony. The centre, where Benjen led, hung back slightly watching from the ridge of the hill as the men smashed into the Darry flank. They’d mounted a rushed defence in front of the baggage train but the majority of their men still lay at either side of the train. The sounds of swinging blades, clashing steel and the screams of the dead began to rise and Benjen grabbed his sword with white hands on the pummel. 

From what he could see the vanguard made it to within spitting distance of the carts before Lord Dustin called the retreat for danger of being flanked. The enemy centre may have been outnumbered but they were without a doubt fresher than the northern force. ‘It looks like we lost more in the charge than we wanted,’ said Howland Reed next to him, keen eyed as ever, ‘still I think now is the time to strike.’

And so it was, the Darry force was ploughing troops into their centre and away from the baggage train for fear of losing their supplies. Now was the time for him to join the battle as well. Benjen drew his longsword lifting it to the air atop his horse ahead of the ranks. He must be seen. 

His eyes lost focus for a second watching a spray of blood from a northern soldiers neck only just in sight. Benjen swallowed, ‘For the North!’ he bellowed out and began to charge. Similar shouts rose up, ‘for Lord Rickard,’ ‘For Lyanna,’ it heartened him that he’d inspired them enough for this. He’d thought the first charge was loud before, but this time the thunder was deafening. Every hoof of every horse made distinct cracks on solid earth, which he could here in perfect clarity and at the same time not at all. They hit the Darry soldiers on the move, they’d yet to form their thicker lines and the battle immediately turned into a melee as the northern vanguard allowed the centre through. Benjen lost sight of Howland, and he lost sight of Martyn and Rodrik Cassel who also charged with him. He was lost in the sea of northern grey clashing with the Darry brown. 

The first man came at him, a poorly fitted footman with a spear targeting him without technique. Benjen may be young and without the muscle of a fully grown man but in the training ground such an attack would be child’s play. This was anything but, the shear sound of the action almost stilled his hand and Benjen had to make a hasty block before countering with the momentum from the charge. He drew his first blood of a man who could barely swing a spear. Benjen kept moving forward, he was still a few men back from the furthest Stark man, but that did not stop him meeting more of the enemy. His sword struck two more before he found Howland and the Cassels again, he wasn’t sure if he killed either. 

‘Looks like the bastards took the bait,’ shouted Martyn Cassel after slaying a man of his own, his blade already looked far bloodier than Benjen’s own. 

‘But we’re losing men by the score,’ he screamed back his voice a high pitch barely heard. 

‘Not much to be done with that now,’ Rodrik pointed out, ‘but look Lord Bolton and Ryswell have flanked them just as planned.’ Benjen craned his neck; with the Darry men safely away from carts the Stark men had the wider force trapping them on three sides. 

Another man, this one a knight struck at Benjen, with an axe which he parried before striking back. The blow nicked the armour but did not kill and the fight continued with them trading blows. Rodrik came to his aid striking the knight with force on the back of the helmet with a war hammer sending him off his horse into the mud. ‘Did you spot lord Darry during the charge, we need to end this,’ he shouted to his comrades. 

‘He was in the rear, my lord,’ Martyn shouted back, ‘but don’t worry about that, concentrate on staying alive.’ Benjen struck again with his sword at another body almost out of reach. The sounds of battle seemed to disappear and time lost its meaning. He tried to fight to Lord Darry, but it would be Lord Bolton and the left flank to claim him if anyone did. In the snapshots of rest he saw the enemy begin to flag and rout. The Darry men clad in brown shirts fell from their ranks like flayed flesh towards the baggage, train taking abandoned carts and sought to flee with their supplies. Others still set ablaze the carts to burn the food within, they were denying them provisions, Benjen realised. 

‘We can’t let them burn the food,’ he shouted, ‘we need our knights to chase them down.’ 

Howland rode up beside him, he seemed in pain, but from the riding than from any blow he’d taken in the melee. ‘We go to Lord Ryswell then, he has the majority of our horse on the better footing.’ They rode together slashing and cutting till they found their way to the banner of the blazing golden horse, Lord Rodrik’s personal sigil.

‘We need to chase the routing men, if we lose the baggage train our strategy will be for nought.’ Lord Ryswell nodded to him looking weary and Benjen took the knights with haste. They swept over the fleeing men as if they were ants, his men shouting in their blood thirst with each slain soldier. Benjen cut down a man with a flaming torch before riding through the maze of carts. They need each and every one with their army tired and hungry. The battle, if it could be called that, was chaos with barely enough room to steer his horse. 

He felt a thundering blow to his back, colouring it red with torn metal. His horse unbalanced tripping on the wheel of the cart and Benjen found himself on the ground. The man at arms he faced wore black and bronze caked in mud, a Ryswell man, a loyalist hidden in their ranks? He parried a heavy blow of the sword feeling him arm bruise from the gravity fuelled swing. He took another this time he was prepared and made a riposte at the enemy’s horse. The horse fell between them allowing the man to recover. Benjen could not see his face it was covered by a well made great helm with slits, his eyes invisible, a shadow in the steel. He was put on the back foot quickly, Benjen lacked manoeuvrability with the jagged metal spewing rivers of blood down his back, in a leaking grin. A few hard blows and his longsword fell from his hands as he tripped back at the mercy of a finishing blade. 

It did not come. A knight, armour blazing in the dying sun barrelled into his opponent with his horse. The man in Ryswell dress flew back tumbling in the mud his breathe turned rasping. Benjen scrambled for his sword to see his enemy still on the floor the knight holding his spear towards him. Now he could see that it was Howland Reed who saved his life. The man looked between them with exaggerated motion, before flying into action grabbing a thin knife from his side and slashing his own throat beneath the armour. The image burned his mind as blood spurt from the slice quicker than Benjen had ever seen it, staining his surcoat and the grass crimson. The knife fell from the man’s hand and Benjen was at his side trying in vain to dam the bloody tide, hoping to find what compelled the man.

‘It is useless my lord, he is dead,’ Howland Reed said softly.

Benjen swiped the hair and sweat from his brow with blood soaked hands, he must look much the worse now. ‘The battles over now,’ he questioned and the crannogman nodded. The hills had quieted of screams and steel, though the burning still remained. The north men were cleaning up the stragglers, the day was won, but Benjen could already tell the cost was higher than they’d hoped. He’d seen far too much death today. He looked to the fallen man at arms, ‘who would have thought there’d be loyalists in the north, after everything?’ 

‘It’s worse than you imagine, my lord,’ Howland Reed replied, ‘the only reason to take one’s own life when defeated is to avoid questioning. There might be other spies and traitors in our ranks.’


	2. Robert I

A storm rose in Storm’s End the likes of which had not been seen in living memory, not even the broken betrothal of the Laughing Storm’s daughter prompted rage equal to that which Lord Robert Baratheon felt. It had started brewing at the news of Lyanna’s disappearance and then kidnapping. Robert had been in the Eyrie at the time and even the cool blooded honourable knights of the Vale were out for blood. In truth they still knew very little about what had happened, but Robert knew one thing. Rhaegar must die, and it would be his war hammer to send him to the seven hells. 

When news of the butchering of Brandon and Rickard reached his ears it only confirmed his belief. The whole Targaryen line must be destroyed and their madness cleansed from the Seven Kingdoms. Upon the news Ned had turned colder than Robert had ever seen him. Many men who knew them both thought the closest of his friends a cold man. But behind the cold face there was much to Eddard Stark. He had known the wolf for years and was glad that he was his friend. An icy look had befallen him upon the raven from the capitol. Stories were told of the Kings of Winter, the elder Starks with the northern wind itself in their spirit, who dealt with their enemies with steel and blood. Robert could never square Ned with those ancient kings until that night. Ned was out for revenge against the mad king as much as he himself was against the bastard Rhaegar. 

The Vale banners were called and he and Ned split as brothers in all but blood to head to their respective father lands. Ned went to the north and him to the Stormlands. His journey would take him to Gulltown, then by ship to Storm’s End. Jon Arryn accompanied him with a force of men to gather his own regions army. He was a great man and had been a father to him even before his parents had drowned in the narrow sea. They had been forced to storm Gulltown together when the Grafton’s declared for the false king. Robert crushed Marq Grafton’s skull himself. Lord Grafton surrendered to mourn the death of his second son, and Jon raised him up in pardon sparing those who would turn to a truer cause. Among the first being Ser Lyn Corbray knighted in the battle for his courageous fighting, now a loyal shadow of his rightful lord. Robert left on a ship while Jon saw to crushing the remainder of those still loyal to the dragons. It sickened him that there some remained with the mad king after what he did to Ned’s family. 

The ships course was troubled as the Narrow Sea was set upon by great storms, screeching spray with the voice of all who had fallen in the waves below. Above all else he heard his father and his mother, and after them those he loved and feared would die. He had only served as acting Lord of the Stormlands for a fist fall of months when the ship the Windproud smashed beneath the walls of Storm’s End. He’d watched in horror with his brothers as they died. It was a blow that Robert had not been ready take and he’d fled to the comfort of the Eyrie, leaving his great uncle Harbert Baratheon as castellan. There he’d become a wineskin with legs and slept with anyone he could to drown the guilt. Jon and Ned comforted him even as they encouraged him to do his duty as lord of Storm’s End. Instead he’d wallowed for a while until he’d fathered his Mya, a little thing with hair as dark as his own that Robert made sure to visit as much he could, as he was when Jon called his banners. When he was ready he returned to his home he was well liked as he always was among the young lords in the Stormlands, but in the years between his parents deaths and now he had still spent more time away from Storm’s End. It gladdened him most when a year after he organised the betrothal to Lyanna Stark, an unparalleled beauty he had seen visiting the Eyrie to see Ned. Just the thought of marrying her, and being Ned’s goodbrother made him smile like a fool. 

When he made it to Storm’s End he was greeted by stern faced Stannis, humourless as ever, black tongued as he told Robert of Ned’s death. It was then he unleashed his storm, shouts of anger and anguish for more than all the others he had mourned. Just to kill the Targaryen’s was not enough, their name must be forgotten, so total their destruction that their name would never be uttered again, not even in a sunken whisper. 

He remembered well on all the nights to come of his brother then, standing a statue of dull iron, come to meet him after he’d screamed himself hoarse. Their eyes met. ‘After mother and father...’ the word was lost to him, ‘Cressen wrote to me you don’t truly keep the seven anymore.’ 

‘No, I do not. No true gods would have taken our parents.’ He replied.

‘I feel I understand that now. I’ve never been pious but... I’m sorry I didn’t understand earlier.’ Robert stormed from the room wetness in his eyes without letting his brother respond, remaining as frozen as he was before. His feet took him to the Godswood, where Ned’s gods slept. The Heart Tree’s face was profoundly solemn, which on that moment seemed more horrific than the pained screaming visage of the one at Harrenhal. He fell to his knees and cried. 

‘I am sorry Ned.’ He said praying he could hear him through the tree, ‘I am so sorry. I know what I must do. I know exactly what you’d say to do, but without you to help I’m not sure how.’ The wood was still like giant candles frozen in a perfect moment of time. ‘I’ll save Lyanna, and protect you brother Benjen, I avenge you, and your brother and father. I promise.’ The winds were roused from nowhere, words with no meaning. A red leaf like a hand swept near his face, free from its branch, as if to reach for him. It fell just short and Robert caught it on his palm and held it. The leaf seemed to have a man’s veins running through it, with its five points like a friend’s hand grasping his. Robert looked at the leaf and understood, his eyes still running with tears like the Heart Tree, ‘I promise, Ned,’ he repeated to the Old Gods.

He would do his duty now, and the dragon’s words of fire and blood would be turned against them. He called his banners and over drinks roused his men into a wild fury that would burn the dragons from history. Among them had been some whispers of dissent, who thought that mayhaps the gods had struck Ned down for his defiance against King Aerys. Robert had had the lowly knight who spoke that rumour to close to him flogged. Personally he wanted the man’s tongue but knew that as the leader of the rebellion he could not. He had to be the standard the men rallied behind, he could not show cruelty the same colour as the mad king. 

Word reached Robert of lords Fell, Cafferen and Grandison were meeting at Summerhall to declare for the Targaryens. He donned his antlered helm and rode to meet with them as well but he’d exchange steel with them rather than words. He rode forth with knights from all over the Stormlands, knights of Tarth, Estermont, Buckler, Errol, Penrose, Morrigen and Swann. The other lord of the Dornish Marches still marched from the south and more would meet them soon. He left his brothers in Storm’s End; they’d be safer there, though he knew Stannis was not happy to be left in the castle. Robert had always found it very difficult to talk to his little brother. Their goodbyes were terse and awkward; Stannis did not forgive him for leaving after their parents died, or for any other imagined slights, but still his younger appeared to want to say something even if he could not find the words. Robert knew he was mostly to blame for their poor relationship and he’d endeavour to repair it once the war was won. The destruction of the Targaryens was far more pressing. 

Lord Estermont rode closely with him with his son Eldon who himself was already passing old. Both had grey beards, the elder reaching a ways down his chest. Despite their lands being on the island of Greenstone they’d brought many troops with them, no doubt for the sake of his mother Cassana. The support of every lord and all their men would be needed in the war to come. Even as they marched quickly Robert was sure to foster companionship with the younger lords through drink and bawdy conversation. Jon had impressed on him that he had a gift for this, that he should use his force of personality to draw men to his side. It was not something he was used to doing on purpose but he could see its effect. Lord Selwyn Tarth, Lord Lestor Morrigen, even Ser Cortney Penrose known to be stern, seemed moved at the tales Lyanna’s beauty and the king’s madness. 

Through every village and town he made himself seen an antlered behemoth riding taller than all other men. He sought companionship with all, smallfolk and landed knights alike. Before he had left Gulltown Jon had told him that when the Targaryen’s fell it would have t be him on the crown, only he had the right blood, but to do that he had to be loved. And he would be if it helped him get revenge, and get Lyanna back, his final aim was not the Iron Throne.

They formed up in sight of Summerhall, or what was left of it; the sun had not yet reached its zenith. The blackened earth that surrounded the ruined castle had largely recovered but the scorched remains still strutted out from grass and trees. The Fells had camped with their banners of green forest and mooned night among the field to the north of the ruins. Robert’s army was to the east of them where they had been obscured by the surrounding hills, now they stood with the sun on their backs. He sat astride his stallion with the vanguard his giants war hammer ready and hungry for the blood of traitors. They had done well to take the enemy so unawares, though Robert knew part of that was luck. Ned would have been better at organising troops, he was always better at the parts of warfare that came less naturally to him, he thought with bitterness. They had always made the perfect team, none could inspire like him, but Ned could give men focus. Robert would not let his death be in vain.

‘You stand with me,’ Robert shouted, the sun sparkling on his armour golden against its blackened ornamentation. The colours of his house, the embodiment of his house, we are the fury, ‘looking on traitors standing in the proof of Targaryen madness. All the dragons know to spread are suffering and fire, the proof is before us now. This scene of disaster, the burnings in the capitol, his actions at Harrenhal, it should be clear to all that Aerys Targaryen has forfeited his right to the Iron Throne. These men before us think not. They do not see the evil in King’s Landing. The evil that wants my head,’ Robert chocked in sorrow and anger, ‘The evil that killed the Starks and the evil that took my beloved betrothed from me. I don’t ask to you to fight for only me. Fight for lost family, fight for lost friends and fight for lost love, for Lyanna!’

Shouts went up, rippling through the army, ‘For Lyanna,’ some answered, ‘We are the fury, For Robert, Death to Dragons.’ The men drowned each other out in their vigour.

He rode ahead, a horned god charging down their enemy. He and all his men were silhouetted by the sun, turning them to shadows yearning for Fell blood. The traitors barely had time to form poor ranks before they met, errant knights charged from their ranks. Robert met the first smashing with his hammer sending him from his horse as if he was made of paper. The body of the first tripped the second’s horse, who Robert executed with a wide swing crushing his skull as he fell to the ground. More, he needed more. The Warrior himself possessed him as Robert lost himself to bloodshed, felling the men like a logger would trees, hacking a bloody path for his men to follow. The gods were with him, he’d prove that, even after they’d so cruelly taken Ned from him. The battle raged and it didn’t take long for the Fell men to lose heart. Lord Fell mounted a final attack at Robert himself but none could touch him today and the lord died of a caved in chest. The Fell army dropped their weapons soon after.

His son was brought to him unarmed and guarded. Robert’s judgement would have to be quick they still faced House Cafferen and Grandison today. ‘You are Axell Fell.’ Robert spoke as his Lord.

‘I am my lord, but most call me Silveraxe,’ he was a tall knight with a shock of black hair not fitting his nickname. He had bravado about him even as he went to the point. His armour was well made though dashed with mud with a simple surcoat above it, only the cloth possessed the imagery of his house unlike so many of the noble’s armour in Westeros, a sign of the difficulty of styling a forest and night’s sky on armour. Axell Fell had instead seen to give his steel a distinctive silver sheen, which with his height would make him stand out amongst many on the battlefield, that with his name, and a perchance for axes, made the source of his moniker more obvious. 

Robert looked down on him from his stallion apart from all his men, he stood alone. ‘You’re father died on the battlefield, my condolences.’ 

The man became a child in the way he shrunk in on himself; the forest of his surcoat seemed to eat him up. ‘I am sorry my lord,’ Silveraxe replied in mourning, before collecting himself, ‘I place myself at your mercy.’

It was far easier when he pictured his enemies in his mind and let his rage take him. As painful images of King Aerys in his mad glee at burnings and Rhaegar at raping Lyanna were, they gave Robert a burning focus that precluded pity. Axell Fell was less deserving of the same rage. But why would he fight for the dragons, how can anyone exist and not see them the sway he does. ‘Why did you follow King Aerys? And be careful, speak a word of a lie and I’ll have your head on a spike.’

‘My father thought you unworthy of the Stormlands,’ his candour was undeniable even as it struck like a heavy blow, ‘for leaving Storm’s End in Ser Harbert’s hands as castellan when Lord Steffon died,’ a sore blow and true, but never enough to side with the mad king over.

‘And that makes me worse than a King who seeks to burn his lord paramount’s in a farce.’ His hammer itched in his hand, singing for blood.

‘In my father’s opinion the king acted within his rights, I followed my father out of duty. I would swear my sword to you instead.’ The tall knight said, his words a plea but steady.

‘By your words it sounds like you only wish to save yourself,’ Robert asked.

‘No, I merely serve you as you wish. If you put me to the block, then that is what you may do, my king.’ He replied meeting his eyes, holding his gaze before dropping them in respect. This was the first time anyone had called him king outside of private conversation. 

Robert dismounted his sword and strode to the chained Axell Fell. He stood a head taller than the guards and now he could tell that the kneeling knight would be only half a hand shorter than him if standing. ‘If I am your king then accept my judgement. Take off his irons.’ He said to all and the guards. ‘I expect your service to be truer than your father. Do not forget your rightful king again.’ 

Robert knew his words were cold; he would not win friends this way. But he could not ignore it in the face of his friend’s fate, even if he did sound like Stannis. 

In a passing fancy he struck his hand out to shake. This was his way of being king; he could not see himself lording above all others. After all, he barely cared for the crown. ‘I will serve you well, your grace,’ Lord Axell replied now standing at his full height. He grasped his hand tightly. It reminded him of the weirwood in Storm’s End.

‘Good,’ Robert smiled, ‘what do you know of the Cafferen and Grandison position?’

‘The Grandison’s remain to the south east, and will be the last to arrive here. I do not think they will have heard of the battle. The same cannot be said for Lord Cafferen. He had men in the camp who were sent to warn him when you attacked our camp.’ The knight explained. It matched what their scouts reported, but news that Cafferen would be prepared was disquieting. Well, he may have a trap prepared by now, and the best way to spring one was head on. 

‘Ready our men, we strike the Cafferen’s before their ready, Silveraxe here will prove himself in the vanguard,’ he announced to his men walking back to his horse. He looked back to Silveraxe Fell, ‘are you ready to fight on the right side of this war?’

‘I accept the honour your grace.’

His army rose quickly and he rode past every tired man to add vigour to their spirit. The men cheered when he passed and moved swiftly. Silveraxe commanded well and Robert was glad to see him true to his word and courageous. The Cafferen’s had been retreating to more favourable ground when they met but Robert’s force hit them in the flank and the enemy surrendered in short order. Lord Cafferen dipped his banner as well with much of his army. Any who did not surrender were dealt with brutally. Robert would forgive who he must but no more, even if they had Stormland blood. He would pass his judgement where unjust gods had passed theirs. They deserved worst fates than Ned was given. 

His army turned, the final battle of the day occurred when the sun was already beginning its westward descent. It formed a bloody sky dyeing al the clouds its colour, telling of the bloodshed of the day. Lord Hugo Grandison saw Summerhall before they met. The dead Fells still lay there amongst the blackened struts of stone, forming charnel stepping stones between the pillars. He and his men still fought, if only to save face. The day ended with him being raised from his knees the Stormlands once more united against a common enemy. 

In the celebrations at followed Robert drank well with his lords, though of the ones that dipped their banners today only Silveraxe could sit with him. He’d allow the others to serve him, but their actions spoke loud when they declared for the Targaryen’s. It was as subtle of a slight that he could make. Petulant, but Robert felt there had to be some punishment for those who made the wrong choice. Ned and Lyanna deserved that much.

He was called from the feast before he could get too drunk, stepping past the serving girl, Aly he thought she was called, who had been making eyes at him all dinner. His guards took him to his tent. He’d taken no squire for himself preferring to don his armour with the help of other knights, an opportunity to know his men better. The two with him now were Garth the Gallows Knight, a giant of a hedge knight from the isle of Tarth, his moniker for Duncan the Tall if he was to be believed. It was not a tale he had heard. His other knight was Alyn Estermont, who despite being young stood with ornate amour of the turtle from his house’s coat of arms. It was not too much of a surprise if he lived he would one day be Lord of Greenstone. Around the tent stood two score men headed by a hooded figure, some he recognised from Storm’s End and understanding dawned on Robert.

His brother threw back his hood stern faced. Robert marched up to him taking him by the arm into the tent. He looked to Garth and Alyn, ‘this will be private.’ He growled to them. When they were enough inside he wheeled on Stannis in blazing anger, ‘What are you doing here? I left you in Storm’s End with clear orders.’

His brother flinched though kept his stance looking at him implacably, ‘A letter came from the...’

‘You came here because of a letter, when you could have sent any man in Storm’s End. Instead, you abandon our home.’ He said spitting the words virulently.

Stannis rose himself up, ‘do not speak to me about abandoning my duty. You left when we needed you most. Uncle Harbert has been more of a lord in Storm’s End than you as a castellan!’

‘Stannis stop,’ Robert held up a reproaching hand he would rather not deal with this now, but the anger still bubbled in his blood, ‘what did the raven say?’

‘It was from Winterfell, my lord,’ he said in faux respect bitingly, ‘Benjen Stark is marching south and should be beyond the Trident within a sennight. They mean to be a threat to give others more time to rally to our cause.’

‘Let me see the letter,’ Robert growled, the plan sounded like madness, there was no way the full strength of the north could amass in this time. Stannis pulled the letter from the shadows of his cloak. Robert raked his eyes over the text.

‘I didn’t trust anyone to give you the letter, particularly with how sensitive the information is.’ Stannis spoke as he read.

Robert let out a tired sigh; this was not how he planned to end the night, ‘if Aerys gets word of the young pup’s mad venture then it would be over before it begins, they’ll only be in the Riverlands now even without issue. This changes our plans, I can’t move on the Reach anymore, not without leaving the Stark force isolated.’ He’d promised himself that he would do right by the remaining Starks. He could not let Benjen die of a foolish yearning for vengeance, no matter how hypocritical that may be. 

‘His army will be on the move and probably won’t risk ravens being intercepted.’ Stannis pointed out, ‘finding them and joining our strength will be difficult.’

‘But that’s not what we need to do, only provide enough of a threat so that the dragons can’t overwhelm them.’ Robert replied their next action forming in his mind. 

Understanding seemed to dawn on Stannis’ face as well in a bare flicker that Robert recognised well, ‘Our armies can pin them until there’s strength enough to mount a siege of King’s Landing. But how will we deal with the Reach they’ll surely declare with the king.’

‘We delay them, but once we’re north of the Blackwater Rush we can keep them south of the river.’ Robert explained, fire burning anew in him. Taking the fight to the Targaryens would feel much better than his last battle plans. 

Stannis frowned grinding his teeth, ‘You’d be leaving the Stormlands open to the Reach and Dorne. You can’t abandon our people for Stark’s sake.’ 

‘The Marcher lords can delay the Dornish on the Boneway, but the terrain doesn’t favour us so against Highgarden.’ Robert said scratching at his beard.

‘We set the Reach ablaze; their larger force will find it difficult to attack us when they can’t feed themselves, or protect their own people.’ Stannis asked.

‘Brutal, but with the Targaryen love for fire I can’t see how their loyalists can complain with a taste themselves,’ answered Robert with a dark smile on his face. It would feel good to burn the Targaryens back. ‘How do you feel about burning the flowery little shits?’


	3. Benjen II

The chance of traitors in his army should have changed much, but it didn’t. Benjen and Howland decided there was little to be done in their situation. The attacker might have worn the colours of House Ryswell, but Howland reminded him that anyone in the camp could have taken the cloth in their rushed breaking of camp earlier that day. This left them with a predicament; it seemed unlikely he was a spy, for there seemed no opportunity for one to infiltrate their ranks. Their march was so quick that any loyalist would have already to have been in the north before the war broke out, or their guards were less competent than they thought. They’d taken his helmet and the man had features that were common in all the north, brown hair and eyes, and nothing on him that could confirm his loyalties more than what he clearly wore. A falsehood if the assassin had been competent at all. If he worked to the tune of another it would be impossible to determine. The man served a traitor high in the chain of command, or was a lone wolf.

Benjen told the other lords and all promised to find and kill any traitors that fell into their grasp, he could tell nothing from their reactions if any worked against him. He asked them to stay silent to their ranks, if word spread unity among their force could be lost. The immediate aftermath of the battle was one of none too little pain for him. His ruined armour had to be peeled off and the jagged cuts sown closed and bandaged, later he was given some milk of the poppy to help him through the night, when he’d slept with dreams full of steel and the shadowy helm of the traitor. As he’d expected watching the battle, they’d lost a few hundred soldiers, an unacceptable loss, even with the capture of much of the baggage train. The fire’s had been contained and others had court up to any carts that had sought to flee. The men ate well that night but most were too tired for drinks and japes, sleeping soundly only a couple of hours after their camp was organised. They rested on the hill, right where Darry had intended to rest the night before fording the Trident. The Lord himself had been slain in the fighting cut down by loyal Bolton knights, an honour to their lord. One of his sons was killed and two more captured, including the new lord Quentyn.

The captured carts also gave them information on who of Darry’s correspondence were loyal to the Targaryens. House Darry had been planning to meet with House Whent, Mooton and Goodbrook at Harrenhal. The Goodbrook lands were east of the God’s Eye so were far out of their reach, but their army laid between Harrenhal and Maidenpool. Once they forded the Trident it should be easy to take on the Mooton and Whent forces separately. The only caveat to this is that the Darry’s had brought ravens with them on the march, which were released during the battle. No one from the army had gotten a clear view of when the ravens flew from the battle. It was impossible to tell if they carried messages to their enemies, or just flew from the slaughter. If the Mootons and Whents were given enough information they would be much harder to beat. Worse if a raven made it to King’s Landing, as was likely, the gathering Crownlander force would march up the Kingsroad for them. Either way they would move to strike at the Mootons taking each battle as they came. 

The most apparent fact was that Benjen’s army needed to recover as he himself did. The day after the battle was lazy for one spent on the war march, merely crossing the river with their supplies. When he crossed he kept those he like close for fear that in his less than lucid state he would fall into the river. Howland, Rodrik and Lord Willam splashed through the ford as it raised high up the horse’s legs, even with the dry weather. Lord Willam on his great red stallion japed as they rode attempting to crack a smile or a laugh from Rodrik who was stoic as ever. Benjen when he was feeling better even joined in, enjoying the feeling of relaxing with men close to his age who made for good company. It was a valuable respite from the brooding that Benjen knew he was prone to since the deaths of the other male Starks. 

Scouts had been dispatched to find the Mooton men, others to the Vale for tidings from Lord Arryn. If the dragons moved sluggishly there was a chance that they could pool their forces south of the Trident, a needed foothold so close to the capital that would pin the royal forces. That was at least what Lords Cerwyn, Ryswell and Bolton advised but that might change with a larger Arryn force taking the helm of command. It made sense though; preventing Targaryen movement would allow Lord Baratheon to gather his Stormland force unmolested. 

Once rested, it took two days to locate the Mooton army, they’d proceeded down the Kingsroad hoping to cut them off but the Mooton’s made quicker time than expected. Another day was needed to be within distance of them. The enemy with clad in crimson and red moved quickly with their smaller force, making them difficult to track. The only reason they were able to force a confrontation was the amount of cavalry they possessed. They could send a portion of their cavalry to harass the Riverlanders, forcing them to a battlefield before they made it to Harrenhal. Lord Dustin described it to him over drinks the day they crossed the Trident, ‘we’re herding the salmon like sheep. The trick is finding the balance so that they never know their being penned in until it’s too late and by then they’re fucked.’ 

Using their cavalry so extensively was dangerous; the horses were quicker over short distances but could only travel about as far as a marching soldier in a day, once supplies were factored in. The outriders would trade their horses but the work still greatly tired the beasts, Benjen could not count on their mobility in the next battle. Their horses managed to slow the Mooton men down enough and their progress had veered south of the great black spires of Harrenhal. The Whent’s seemed unwilling to reinforce their allies in the war, even as they were scant miles from the fortress. 

The Mooton’s rather than allow for their army to be smashed against God’s Eye, instead chose to march through the night southwards to create some distance. Their bearing the cause of much discussion, ‘going south can only mean the Crownlands have roused a force,’ Lord Edwyle Cerwyn insisted.

‘If the Fat Salmon cared for his men then he would have taken the risk fighting our raiders to make it to Harrenhal, the lives of all his men would be less at risk that way,’ Willam countered, he was an easy man, but he cared for those that lived under him. He despised the cowardice of those who would not sacrifice for what was right. 

Lord Bolton chose then to weigh in, ‘it matters not whether he cares for his men, only that we must have overplayed our hands,’ his eyes were frozen steel at Lord Dustin and Ryswell, who had led the raiders. ‘We must move fast or the Mootons will fall outside our reach. More victories are vital to force Lord Tully to our side.’ 

‘We have proof that the Goodbrooks are declaring for the king as well, their lands lie the other side of Harrenhal, we can strike them instead,’ Lord Cerwyn growled starting to turn red in the face, ‘that would also bring us closer to Riverrun if we need Lord Hoster’s help.’

‘But there is no guarantee that Lord Whent will allow us to move into the heart of the Riverlands, replied the Bolton lord, his face gaunt even in warm light, ‘or that the Goodbrooks are not already in Harrenhal.’

‘If it is combat that we are worried about we should head for Maidenpool, without an army it is for the plucking.’ Lord Ryswell said with slight mirth. Benjen did appreciate the irony of attacking the Mooton’s in their seat of power. It wouldn’t work though; Maidenpool had walls strong enough that they could not afford to waste the time in siege. It seemed that Lord Roose had given them their best cause of action again. 

‘If we were to chase the Mootons, how would we force a confrontation?’ Benjen said in his lord’s voice. When he’d watched his father hold council he generally struck a balance, oft waiting to be the last to speak so to make all men feel as if they’d aired their opinions, he’d only intervene when discussion veered from what he’d wanted. Maidenpool would be a fool’s venture and he refused to sit on his toes waiting while their enemies gathered their men. 

‘To travel so quickly they must be light on food, our raiding has prevented them foraging. We must starve them further; burn the farmland and the trees, then strike the killing blow.’ The flayed lord was brutal but practical. The other lords had reservations that it would turn the smallfolk even more against them. If they could not count on the local villages to buy supplies they would find their fates mirroring the Mooton, except with dragon’s fire at their back, instead of cold northern fury. 

 

He’d given the order and as they made camp that night he could see great plumes of smoke curling on the horizon like grey giants dancing on red coals of fire and the flames of the setting sun. Benjen looked to his own smaller fire a few feet in front of him, reflecting the greater fire miles away. He sat with Howland, the Cassel brothers and Willam again. They’d grown close as only those who’d seen battle together do, or at least that’s what Benjen heard old veteran’s say. 

Willam poured large cups of wine, an Arbor vintage plundered from the Darry caravan. It was sweet and he had not drunk wine so fine for more than a year at least, giving him a heady feeling that made him forget the pain of his scarred back. It made him nostalgic and he was not the only one. ‘Have you heard of the Knight of the Laughing Tree, Lord Willam,’ Howland asked a little in his cups, helping to loosen his normally quiet tongue, ‘from the great Tourney at Harrenhal.’

‘Aye, of course I have. I was at the tourney but never knew the identity of the mystery knight in poor armour who found the Mad King’s ire,’ Willam replied smiling. The story had been a common tale of the Tourney, though had been drowned out by other even juicier fruit, like Lyanna and her crown of winter roses. Even with the controversy those were happy times.

Howland looked to him asking for permission finish the tale, even red faced from drink he kept politeness. Benjen found that he wanted his other friends to know the mischief they had wrought, ‘A mystery knight, unknown to all,’ he said with theatrics, ‘but Howland, you know who held the laughing shield, do you not?’ 

Howland practically giggled, ‘oh I do,’ he whispered drawing them in, even Rodrik who pretended to barely listen. He could not be seen to dispel his stoic knight routine with idle chatter, ‘the fine knight who beat the lances of Haigh, Blount and Frey for the acts of their squires against me...’

‘Really it was your honour the knight protected,’ Willam interrupted laughing, ‘I assumed it was for some shy maiden.’

‘The story’s only made the better that the gallant knight was Lyanna Stark,’ Howland japed back. Rodrik spat his golden wine in surprise, with great hacking coughs. Lord Willam laughed at his expense, even as Martyn came to his brother’s side, mirth in his eyes, to save him from chocking on his wine. 

Rodrik fell back, ‘you jape ser,’ disbelief plain on his face. 

Benjen laughed, ‘Not a word of a lie, I helped her find the armour,’ it was good to let his hair down after so long.

‘I knew she was half a horse but really,’ Willam grinned taking a swig from his wine, ‘where could she have gained such a skill with the lance,’ 

‘You don’t know me and Lyanna. We used to rain in secret with wooden swords behind fathers back in the godswood,’ Benjen smiled at the memory.

‘I bet she had you on your arse more than half the time,’ the Dustin man replied. 

‘Without a doubt when we were children, but I’m a man grown I’d barely sweat now,’ he insisted wine fuelling the fire of his bravado. 

‘Ha,’ Martyn Cassel finally laughed, ‘the pup thinks he’s fully a man. With attitude like that I’d keep my coin on your sister.’ 

They continued their japes long after the sun had set the fires in the distance and close by shuddering into embers. Together they’d finished another pair of wine bottles and slept for what seemed like a sennight. 

 

For their next battle it was the northern army who this time were the better rested. Their horse may be on their last legs but the numbers advantage was such that it would not matter. Benjen still suffering from his injury had been advised to take a less active role in the battle, he remained in the centre but it would not be him who led the charge. 

The Mooton’s most of the day attempting to evade their army but they drew up in the late afternoon hungry and tired on a grassy plain. Their army was larger than the Darry but not by much, a lake of surcoats of red and white against the sea of grey, brown, red and bronze of the north. They must know that so outnumbered there was not a hope of victory, unless saved by men of the Crownlands, an unlikely prospect. The dragons had not roused from their slumber if Benjen could trust his scouts. The Mooton’s fought with honour to face them now, and the north would respect that much, even if they served the wrong master. 

His scar still hurt keenly and he kept his guard close, there would be no repeat of last battle, no traitor to stab him in the back. He would watch the battle with sharp eyes for any dissent. Benjen prayed to the old gods and the new that it was not someone on his council working behind his back. He could barely comprehend if it was true, how the traitor could sit in their meetings without revealing anything. 

His army formed up much the same as it had against the Darry ploughmen, except with fewer men and Lord Cerwyn in the vanguard, this battle would require a leader at the front with more discipline than Lord Willam. There would be no charge or faked attack this time, only a slow advance of overwhelming force, a storm to batter and topple the enemy defence. Benjen rode the line letting men see him, his current armour fit him well enough, but he would still need to get some reforged when it was possible. Cries went up as he went past flanked by his most trusted, when it came to sound their advance the men did so gladly. They were eager even more than for their first battle, though that could easily be explained by the less demanding journey the army had to this one, only part of the cavalry were not well rested. 

The clash of armies began, a song of steel that now seemed familiar to Benjen, he’d dreamed the same song every night since the battle north of the Trident. War was horrific but it came easier now. He knew the meaning of taking a life, and ordering men to fight to the death for him. The tide of the battle was easy to see. The Mooton in their red were autumn leaves who had outstayed their welcome when winter came. Some were already fleeing when Benjen entered the fray. There was little he for him to do, the Cassels brothers guarded him well, he only drew blood twice. Shouts came up on the right flank, an injured Ryswell mayhaps. Either way, it spurned their men to greater ferocity. The enemy scattered like weirwood leaves only a small group remained holding the banner around an injured lord Mooton. They’d retreated back a distance and Benjen approached the group on horse, with Stark, Cerwyn and Bolton forces, while his other men cleared the battle and chased fleeing Riverlanders. 

‘Will you yield,’ Benjen asked the troops, no more than four score surrounded without other recourse. 

A young knight, no more than half a decade older than Benjen, still ahorse in expensive armour moved his blade to point at him threatening, even if it was an empty threat at this distance. ‘Never, I already saw you cut down my brother I will never yield to savages.’

‘Who are you, ser,’ Benjen asked of the knight.

‘I am Ser Myles Mooton, northern mongrel, the last son of Lord Waymar Mooton.’ The man spat in crimson fury, he had been one of many a prominent knight in Harrenhal, Benjen was surprised he had forgotten him, ‘I would rather die, and watch in the next life when Rhaegar brings your head before the rightful king.’

‘He squired for the Crown Prince, his death would send a message,’ said Lord Roose looking bloody as his sigil, ‘or his flayed hand.’

There was a movement in the Mooton ranks, a fear inspired by the brutal words. Benjen did not appreciate them, saying such in front of so many would force him to act or disavow Lord Bolton. The men split and the injured lord walked out supported by two men at arms, holding a bloody gash at his side leaking red the same colour as his surcoat. ‘I will yield, my Lord, if you spare my son that fate.’

‘No, no you can’t father. I’d rather die,’ the young knight charged forward, a mad fool straight for Benjen with murder in his eyes. It was Martyn Cassel who intercepted him first parrying a strike and then slashing at his horses flank. Another knight pounded him with a mace shattering his guard and knocking him into the other Cassels blow to his side. Ser Myles fell from his horse spraying the grass with a river of blood. His impact was thunderous above the sound of horse’s hooves and for a moment he lay still before his arm reached up to grab his helmet blood already leaking from the breathing holes. He spluttered blood from an ashen face, with his flaming hair he could be mistaken for a Weirwood, twisted in a grimace like many of the carved trees. 

Some of the Mooton knights moved into action but were rebuffed by northern steel. Lord Waymar Mooton had gone limp in shock, only the knights supporting him stopping him from falling face first into the dirt. The killing happened quickly before Benjen’s eyes and it didn’t take long before the rage at their famous knight’s death petered out into acceptance. He looked to Rodrik Cassel who had a troubled look on his face looking at the dying Myles; he had not meant to land a killing blow. 

 

Another deadly blow had been dealt to the loyalists in the Riverlands. Lord Mooton died of his wounds in the early hours and Benjen discovered from the prisoners that with the deaths of his sons William and Myles, the new lord of Maidenpool was his infant grandson Jon, by William, still safe behind its pink walls. Benjen’s own losses had been less severe, but two of his lords hung by a thread. His right flanks ferocity during the battle had been caused by an injury to Lord Rodrik Ryswell and Lord Cerwyn also took a blow shattering and sinking his ribs with a Morningstar. Both were being treated to in their tents but they lacked a skilled maester. Lord Roose had taken de facto command of Lord Ryswells forces and Benjen Lord Cerwyn’s himself. 

Benjen did not dream of steel that night, instead he was shaken from dreams of the animals of teh wood, twin dying ravens. Howland Reed stood above him, ‘my lord, you are needed.’ With bleary eyes the young pup woke throwing on clothes despite his stiffness. There was a scout at the mouth of his tent blood and sweat on his brow and Benjen bade him to speak. 

‘There’s an army milord making up the Kingsroad from the capitol. They outnumber us, that’s all I know. They killed Maron and Hagon before we could see any banners.’ The man shivered whiping his brow and recoiling at the sight of blood.

‘How far away are they?’ Benjen asked, worry plain in his voice even as he attempted to quash it. The man didn’t answer transfixed on his arm, so he grasped him rough, ‘How far?’

‘A few hours, milord, no more than half a day if they marched slowly,’ the scout chocked. 

Benjen looked to Howland, ‘rouse the men. We need to be ready to move by dawn.’ 

The camp was left in a rush, hastily stored tents were barely packed by men still asleep where they stood, and spewing curses in shallow breathes. The forces of the Crownlands were larger and Benjen did not feel confident facing them with two of his best commanders sleeping fitfully in roughly moving carriages. He sent more scouts ahead, ‘Our best bet is to cross the Trident,’ he had said, ‘we can hold the army at the ford and hope Lord Arryn comes to our aid.’ These scouts were in large groups. He would not risk them dying and being caught unawares as they had almost been by the royal army. 

They marched quickly up the Kingsroad the fastest track to the crossing, feeling dragon breath at their necks with every step. They were greeted by scouts but not the ones they’d sent to the Trident only a day before. ‘We come with news from the Vale. We couldn’t make it far into the hills the mountain clans are taking the opportunity to raid with impunity, but we heard that Lord Arryn still faces loyal houses in the Vale. On our trip back though, enemies were holding the Tridents ford. We didn’t know their sigil, some kind of green tree on white...’ ‘House Ryger,’ he thought, ‘with Darry men they rallied. We had to sneak across the river by boat downriver.’ 

This left them with only one path to travel, past Harrenhal. They’d likely have to battle Whent forces but that would be far less dangerous than attempting the crossing and being hit in their rear. The scouts sent behind them fought in bitter skirmishes which yielded little, other than who commanded the enemy, the new Hand of the King Jon Connington and Jonothor Darry. The latter no doubt sought revenge for the death of his older brother. Men flaked off at the pace they went reducing their number to estimated eight thousand strong. 

When they reached Harrenhal with haggard men, it was not the bats of Whent that met them, but the trout of Tully. He met with Lord Hoster Tully under a peace banner half way between his army and the older lord’s camp. ‘We have much to discuss,’ The Lord Paramount of the Trident said sternly.


	4. Eddard I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: this is the first of the original two chapters of this story. Sorry for posting these chapters out of order, but I am now happy with the format of the story and it shouldn't happen again. To all readers I hope you enjoy the story so far. In the earlier chapters I found it difficult to balance the warfare description with other aspects, like the dialogue. Please tell me if they came out too dry. 
> 
> Again thanks for all feedback you can give me on the story

The cold was all around him. It had entered through his mouth and nose, and now he could feel it in his lungs, reaching out in icy tendrils. Ned opened his eyes and the water shimmered around him. Awareness shifted in and out. Left and right, up and down, there was no meaning where all that existed was ever changing shimmers of light. He hung suspended struggling to breath with ice filled lungs.

‘Live, my lord,’ a voice echoed from around him. Ned strained his ears trying to locate a figure or just a shadow. ‘Up, up. You must swim up.’ 

He found it now and swam with limbs filled with icy steel. Towards the voice, though he could still not see the source. ‘Up, up. You must swim up.’ The voice repeated.

The water around him seemed to have a mind of its own. Ned could feel it grasp him. All he could do was struggle. No, he refused to die in this endless sea, wherever he truly was. Finally after an age he saw the shadow above, shimmering with a new light, a lantern or some over fire. ‘Up, up you must swim up... but not to me you must grasp the wolf. Look, and see, it is with you. Look inside and look above, it is with you.’

Ned kept swimming, and then looked inside but all he felt was cold. Deeper, he thought. He didn’t know why but he knew that’s what he was bid to do. Yes, there was a light. It did not burn, but it was there. He kept swimming but not towards the voice. He swam up towards the wolf he could see it now on the water’s edge. The tendrils of water still grasped him, but now he grasped the wolf. His hand twisted around its clawed paw. It was made of rough hewn stone and deathly cold to the touch. 

He pulled himself up but he didn’t have the strength, the icy tendrils had redoubled their efforts. ‘Up, up. You must swim up.’ Ned reached up with his other arm, his arm a swinging blade of frozen steel. He grasped the wolf around the neck and hugged it tight pulling himself to life. He had to live. 

He fell to the floor, coughed the water from his lungs and fell on his back. His vision still swam with water but the wolf’s head was directly above him. His head lay between its feet. A hand, his own, reached his face and clawed the water off. ‘Well done, my lord. You have taken your first step. It pains me, as it does you, but you have many more to take.’ 

The figure, still in shadow, had moved from the water’s edge and now stood before him in the chamber. He was wreathed in black his face cloaked in an even deeper darkness that even the torch in his left hand could not penetrate. A single eye, Ned could not tell, mayhaps a trick of the light, but he thought he saw a single red eye within the hood. The shade reached to and touched Ned on the forehead, betwixt the eyes, sending an icy shiver through him before a weight lifted from his shoulders. On the figures opposite shoulder sat a crow staring through him with inhuman focus. ‘No gift,’ It cawed, ‘No, gift.’ 

Ned knew not what it spoke of, but the figure seemed to and held the torch up as if to strike the bird. It flew off towards the exiting stairs with pained squawks. For the first time Ned saw where they stood. A series of statues of men with their wolves, their faces cold as the times they ruled. The Kings of winter, Ned knew, in the Winterfell Crypts.

‘Why, why am I here?’ Ned questioned, ‘Am I dead?’

‘No, not yet my lord,’ The shadow answered, ‘you still have work yet. In truth you chose this place. You chose to dream this place as Starks oft do. The dream reflects life, and life reflects the dream. Look only to the water and see the truth.’ 

Ned looked and thought. The water still seemed to move with a mind of its own, the waves reached for him still. ‘Yes, I remember. I fell from the fisherman’s ship into the sea. I had to make it to White Harbor, to lead an army against the Mad King.’

‘Yes, the water tried to claim you. Come let us climb. The dream reflects reality. If you’d failed to swim you would have drowned.’ The figure led him past statues the light shifting over their faces and their wolves. The eyes shifted with light from the torch which seemed to breathe lives into the statues. He looked to one epitaph, Brandon Stark: slayer of kings and monsters. He did not this recognise Brandon from all the histories he had read. The figure chose then to speak again, ‘That is one you do not know, but he is dreamed by many. Leave him to his rest, it is not your place to know him.’

‘But he is missing his sword,’ Ned said, he hadn’t really noticed it until he spoke the words. It was a queer feeling. His body did not feel his own. ‘How can he fight without a sword?’

The shadow grabbed his arm and pulled him along, so he did not look at the long dead king any longer. Up the stairs they went, to where more kings stood. These were more statues that he did not know, they were too deep. But it was still clearly the crypts of Winterfell. Ned looked to the cracked floors. In places you could see through the cracks to look below. All he could spy within the cracks was white, which seemed to shift like clouds. 

‘Who are you?’ Ned asked when he found his voice again. The shadow had saved him, but why? 

‘A dreamer, that is all. I’ve come to help you at great personal cost. But you must live, I have seen that much.’ The shadow replied.

‘Stop speaking in riddles,’ Ned started with an angry glare, ‘tell me your name and what you want of me.’ He no longer asked but demanded. For the first time he felt like a lord.

‘All I want from you is life. Walk it yourself. Fight the false king as you would, and stand upon the hill on the last battle and order archers to rain death, as I did. Enemies should be dealt punishment with brutal efficacy.’ The man, for now Ned could see he was at least human, spoke for the first time with a glimmer of true passion, rather than a condescending maester to his pupil. Still, he offered no answers, but Ned could tell that’s all he would speak to him of his purpose.

They walked on and up. The cracks grew larger and larger. More cloudlight sifted through illuminating the long dead kings, making their faces shift like milkglass. Now they had to walk around the cracks their path no longer clear, weaving to the next set of stairs. He recognised the names now, Benjen the sweet, and Benjen the bitter, Edrick Snowbeard, and Brandon Ice Eyes and Torrhen the king who knelt. And finally, in what Ned now knew was the upper chamber he saw his father and Brandon, each with wolves at their side. There stood three spaces after Brandon, ready to be filled with more Starks. 

The first grave leaked water from a whole at the top, spewing its contents onto the cobbled ground in tiny waves. The water ran over those cobbles like a tide swallowing the world. Even as he watched the water stopped and it seemed the stones themselves drank the water deep. The second grave was blackened and burnt. Blood leaked from its top and images shifted within. The fires light shifted past it and Ned saw a dragon and a wolf in the crimson blood. ‘Lyanna definitely, and so the first must be myself,’ the last grave was bloodied as well, though not as bad. A blunted knife was chipping flakes of stone off the stone face of the base, blood leaked like sap from the holes. The knife was in the process of gouging out a large chunk which looked like an axe head, or perhaps a horse’s, it was not clear. 

‘Yes, and the last your brother Benjen, he is the easiest to save and save him you must. This is one thing I will say plainly, for you must remember this of all. Write to him in Harrenhal of your survival lest he die to the flayer’s knife.’ The shadow spoke with urgency and Ned committed the words to memory as best he could. But why his brother would be in Harrenhal rather than Winterfell, Ned did not know.

Ned was pulled along again. He had so many questions but not the breathe to ask them. It seemed there was no time for that. They reached the top of the stairs and exited into what should have been Winterfell’s cool outside air. Instead there was nothing and Ned felt for a moment her would fall. The arm grabbed him and he shifted and stumbled on the edge, he looked to see the shadow, even in the light he could not see his face. 

Ned gathered his senses looking down again he could see the entire world beneath him. Westeros stretched to the ends of the earth to a place obscured by cold. South he could see Benjen in the Riverlands and Robert in the Stormlands, both marching on King’s Landing. Images of all he’d ever known began to flash, the cacophony of light and sound split his skull between his ears. The crow landed on his shoulder again, sucking him from the view. ‘No gift, no gift, no wings, no wings.’ His eyes focused on the bird.

‘You will not fly,’ The figure said, ‘but you will live. Go up the steps and wake to the world again.’ Ned nodded and walked up steps he knew should not exist. Winterfell had no steps here. He had not lived here for years, but he still knew his home well enough. 

At the last step, where the door stood to the waking world, stood a single knight in ornate black and red armour. Dragons of ruby covered it in well carved visages. Rhaegar, ‘It is done,’ he sang so solemn, ‘my sword is bloodied and the world is saved,’ it was true, blood dripped from his blade.

‘Is that why you ran with her?’ Ned asked, ‘to save the world.’

‘Yes,’ The Crown Prince answered, ‘what. Did you think I loved her? No, I did as all the books bid me. Our child will be the Prince That Was Promised.’

Ned felt anger in his blood, words boiled from his mouth, from a place deep within that he knew not, ‘If all you needed was Lyanna’s child, why run off? Why start the war?’

‘The Prince must be a Prince, the Promised must be Promised. I saw no other way.’ There was sadness in his speech. An all pervading melancholy, a resignation of what he knew had done.

‘There was a better way,’ Ned drew his sword and struck his blade faster than in life. In the dream he was unshackled by his waking doubts. 

Rhaegar blocked the blade, blood flying from his own. Ned put him on the defensive his strikes swift and strong. His sword had the look of the greatsword Ice with its smoky folds of Valyrian Steel. On every clash of swords the blade would light and shine with the light of ancient battles. 

Rhaegar’s sword fell from his hand plunging to the clouds below. He closed his eyes, his mouth began to move. Eddard did not let him finish his Ice now bloodied too. Rhaegar fell and Eddard stood alone. He dropped his own sword and grasped the door in front of him in both hands. The crow returned to him, ‘Yes live, yes live,’ it said to him, ‘yes live, yes live.’ 

Ned opened the door and he woke. 

 

Awareness came slowly with a feel of new wetness on his lips and cheek, yet queer dryness at the same time. The lips against his tongue felt deathly dry, even as he was sure he had been soaked through to the core. Reality shifted and Ned almost felt that he could see himself. His eyes opened blearily and the world came into focus revealing a slobbering tongue and yellow eyes. A wolf, a grey wolf. 

Ned reached out tentatively and stroked its fur, scratching the beast behind the ear. It whined into his touch, its tongue lolled and it breathed heavily. The warm air coiled in the coil air with a life of its own. Ned breathed deep as well. 

Ned turned feeling the pebbles beneath his body. The stones were not sharp but he could feel them like he’d rested on them for days. This ache would last for a long time and wasn’t helped by the weight of his clothing that had taken on thrice their weight in water. The beach extended into the mist as long as he could see in both directions. Where was he? Ned could only guess. They had not sailed far enough to be in the North, one of the Three Sisters then. 

Either way, he had larger priorities now, on the beach he was open and there was little food. Survival would be the first test, finding his fellow man came later. Inland the beach turned upwards into high cliffs covered in undergrowth, unscalable, unless in desperation. He set about finding a spot to rest for the night and dry his sodden clothes for tomorrow’s journey. The wolf didn’t seem interested in hunting as a wild beast should and followed him like a trained dog, the action should have seemed unnatural, but for whatever reason felt right. 

After a short walk up the beach Ned found a shallow cave. Not enough for fine shelter, but enough to shield him from the worst of the wind. With that he set about collecting wood for warmth and perhaps finding food. During his fostering in the Vale Ned had learnt much of being a knight, though he did not consider himself one or delight in the tourneys many from the south loved. One vital skill he had learnt that was part of this was foraging. 

Unfortunately he knew little of the wildlife of the Sisters, Jon Arryn rightly did not value teaching him of what life made its home in the remote islands in the north of the Vale, seeing it as unneeded. He could hear birds in the distance but could not spy them and in any case, had no bow to shoot them down. The cliffs themselves showed signs of life. The loose soil of the cliffs had been burrowed into by hares and Ned set about improvising snares. The bushes he fashioned them from hardly seemed reliable; food would become a concern quickly if Ned failed to find men soon. 

He stood halfway up the cliff picking berries for the snares, idly wondering if they were edible. His body felt supremely stiff as if weighed down by lead, catching the lower fruit made his body creak like an aged Maester. He heard a growl. Ned jerked to his right. His wolf companion had seemed to find his own bush. Ned walked over and before his eyes the wolf licked the fruit before it and then tugged the branch with its canines, ripping the plant root and stem. It was a queer sight to Ned watching as the wolf ate the berries on the branch before dropping the twigs and looking to him, as if to invite him to eat himself.

Either he was going mad or his empty stomach bested him. He wolfed down the berries quickly finding them sour to the taste, but the liquid inside soothed his dry throat, even if they didn’t fill him. He tested his voice, ‘Thank you wolf,’ he still sounded hoarse, ‘I must think of a name for you.’

He walked back to his cave, collecting a bed of leaves to sleep on and small pile of wood to make a fire. His quick scouting of the area had yielded no sign of his fellow man, or how to find them. Hopefully the smoke would attract someone to take him to a farm. Ned prayed he was on Sweet Sister, the middle of the Sisters and the only one with a town, Sisterton. Ned knew little of the place but prayed for it all the same. The Old Gods weren’t ones to give straight answers but the bristling wind offered little comfort. 

In truth Ned had little way of knowing which island he was on. The fog had set in too thick after the storm for him to see any other land out to sea. He had little hope of seeing the stars tonight either. That was just as vexing, he knew enough of the stars and their movements to roughly tell the time of year, though it was the moon that was important. With it he could tell how long had passed, it had been a new moon last he knew, but it seemed to want to hide its face as well. It can’t have been long he told himself, otherwise he would no longer draw breathe.

The pebbles on the beach were hardly suitable for starting a fire and Ned agonized over finding a suitable striking stone and flint. The rocks at the ready were too brittle and it took four attempts to light a proper blaze. He stripped out of his wet clothes and hung them across the fire, he’d been careful to hang them high enough to avoid any fear of catching. It didn’t matter if on the morrow they stank of smoke, so long as they were dry. 

With night falling on his little camp the fire’s use was solely to keep Ned warm. There would be no one outside to attract with a plume of smoke. Keeping the fire going was another problem. The firewood was surprisingly dry so soon after a storm and even the damp air could not prevent the thin twigs from burning quickly. Ned spent a lot of time out searching for more wood to burn, thankfully the rest he could enjoy at the fireside huddling the wolf for warmth. 

‘If you continue to be so dependable,’ he said to the wolf, ‘I’ll have to call you trusty, or perhaps faithful.’ He sighed, whipping his brow, ‘Brandon’s always been so much better at naming things.’ His hand clenched at the unbidden thought. Father and Brandon were wounds that were raw and deeply made. He felt guilty about not thinking of them more, but to do so strangled all breath from his lungs. He knew so little, all the letter they’d received from the capital said was that they were executed for treason, and that he and Robert were next. It left too much to mind’s eye. Ned prayed to all the gods that the deeds had been done by the executioner’s blade. It may not be the Northern way, but the rumours that abounded about the king’s favourite way of killing were far worse.

Almost as bad as the fear for the dead, were the niggling doubts about those he cared about which lived; Lyanna, chief of all, for Ned knew truly that she left with Rhaegar of her own volition. Benjen had told him that she had been smitten with the Crown Prince, but he thought she had more sense than this, even after she told of her doubts of Robert when he visited Winterfell. When they’d heard the news of her disappearance, all the men of the Eyrie leapt to a kidnapping, Robert most of all. It was only Jon Arryn’s word of caution that stayed their hand then. 

And now the realm would burn. Jon had raised his banners and the last Ned heard he and Robert were marching on Gulltown, which had barred its gates declaring for the Crown. Any battles would follow and death could wait with icy blades at any of them. Benjen too, the Stark in Winterfell should have begun marshalling the strength of the North. If he never made it north, would Benjen fight the Targaryens in his stead? A stray thought told him to write him in Harrenhal, a half remembered memory of a shadowed dream. He did not know why or how, it was a foolish thought when Ned considered for more than half a second. Why would he be there?

None of Ned’s musing’s were productive, his doubts would have to wait another day. He lay stiffly on his bed of leaves, his muscles sore, watching drowsily as the embers of the fire died out. His wolf huddled into him granting him warmth with the fire almost gone. The fire reflected russet on the thousand shades of grey in its fur. Ned closed his eyes, and dreamed more dreams he would not remember.


	5. Eddard II

The hunger gnawed at him. On the morn of his fourth day on the blasted island Ned’s despair grew tenfold. The mists and snow continued their oppressive greyness, sapping all life and joy from the world. They seemed sent by a god that sought to trap him till he wasted away. He tried in vain to send a signal to any other soul with a large fire and searched up and down the beach for some easy way inland, all in vain. An oppressive sickness had caught Ned that sapped all energy from his body. With the hunger, hollowness filled him which felt like his body was eating itself, making his skin hang looser on his bones. 

His ever presence wolf stayed with him as well, showing signs of hunger as well. Ned had previously promised himself not to eat the wolf, he’d become quite attached to his presence, and besides to kill the animal of one’s house would be a dire omen. The nameless wolf trotted up to him, Ned’s breaches in its mouth. The ease of not having to collect it from the other side of the cave was appreciated; the slobber on them was not. 

Ned reached to take them feeling a flash of pain in his ribs as he reached for them. His ribs were the worst of his current predicament. On his second day on the gods damned beach he’d attempted to scale the cliffs, worked forth by his hunger. That had been a huge error of judgement. Two thirds up a loose stone had caused Ned to fall and slam on his side with a sickly crunch. He’d been stuck like a pig with a jagged branch. Ned had dragged himself back to the cave. He’d paid for his impatience with a bloody scab, a broken lower rib and his underclothes. His shirt had been turned into a makeshift bandage. Whatever madness had taken him to climb the cliff, rather than search further up the beach, had punished him. Now he could not scout any further.

Delirious, he’d allowed the great gray beast to lick the wound once the blood had seeped through the first time. He’d changed it a further two times and now only ventured out to check for food and collect sea water he’d attempted to purify. He wouldn’t die from thirst but whatever else was still in the water after it boiled debatably made him worse.

He stood with difficulty keeping one hand on the face of the cave for support. His balance was worse now and Ned felt woozy. He grabbed a stick that he had used for support and walked to the entrance. Another day with ever thicker mist, even if Ned could build a fire he doubted anyone would see it. What more could he do at this point?

Hobbling along the beach, Ned decided to make for what he thought was west. From what he could see of the cliffs there was still no way up. He’d scouted earlier in his imprisonment and found no avenues of escape or even shelter. It seemed that through what little luck he had, Ned had washed up right next to the best spot to sleep. There was not much for it now. 

Ned would die on his feet searching for life than quietly in his sleep. The thought brought a strangled laugh from his lips. He remembered what felt like years ago Howland Reed calling him the ‘Quiet Wolf’ in Harrenhal. It was not funny at all but he laughed anyway, laughed until his lungs could take it no longer. His wolf cocked its head at him almost disapproving and he quieted himself. Gods he was delirious.

He walked on sluggishly until the time of day lost meaning. Phantoms dogged him out to sea shifting in and out of form in the mist. He could not see their forms and did not want to. They were apparitions of his mind not visions of truth, only symptoms from his lack of blood and food. He looked away from the water when he began hearing impossible flames. He trudged on, ignoring what did not exist.

He heard a whisper over gathering flames, ‘Eddard, my boy, do you find it easy to ignore your own blood?’ That was his father’s voice and Ned could not resist looking to the voice. The Lord of Winterfell was wreathed in fire of green and red. There was disappointment on his face. ‘What an ignoble way to die Eddard. I sent you to the south to thrive and here you are, dead on your feet.’

‘I tried father,’ Ned was lost for words. His wolf nipped at him trying to pull him away from the ghost. Ned could not turn, ‘Tell me what I should do.’

‘Sacrifice your pride. There’s ten meals there right next to you.’ A hand reached out to point to his gray protector. The wolf growled as if it heard the words, but how was that possible, his father was burnt in King’s Landing, not here. Ned looked to the wolf, staring deep into its yellow pools.

‘I can’t,’ Ned said indignant, ‘he saved my life.’ 

‘Save me your pride, boy. Only death may pay for life. Sacrifice what’s freely given. It will save your life.’ That did not sound like his father. Then again his father was burning in front of him; what sense did it have to make. The flames grew higher and Ned thought he saw another shade behind them. A silhouette in only black feathers with string flying from his fingers or mayhaps nails long as swords. A smile and a cackle of laughter, the Mad King, Ned questioned to himself. 

He was distracted by a metallic shriek far closer to him. Ned’s eyes drew down. A single black sharp shard of stone lay on the pebbled ground, made for killing, but it was not that that made the noise. Crawling from the water pulling through metal wires which tore skin was Brandon Stark. His face was purple from the wire round his neck, black blood spewed down it into tidal water. ‘Kill the wolf Ned, just as surely you killed me.’

‘What do you speak of Brandon?’ Ned asked horror in his voice.

‘I called for Rhaegar’s death, Ned. I thought he was raping Lyanna, but you know the truth, don’t you. You let me walk to my death.’ The wire tightened, blood gurgled and his head pulled back. Brandon threw himself forward dragging himself out the water. 

‘I didn’t. I had no idea that this would happen.’ Ned cried. 

‘No you didn’t think, did you. Too busy staring from afar at that Dornish wench to care for your family.’ His brother’s body shuddered in anger, ‘You should kill that wolf Ned, for you are no Stark.’

Ned‘s hands shivered and he stabbed his walking stick into the pebbles, beginning to reach for the jagged rock. Brandon clenched the stone and turned it palm up to give to Ned, blood leaked through the gaps betwixt his fingers onto the pebbles. His hand grasped the stone as well, it was an ugly thing shaped like a spearhead of black glass. Obsidian, Ned realised. 

He shifted, turning to his gray friend, tears forming in his eyes. Now facing the wolf he dropped the stick propping him up. The wood fell into the water with a splash and was claimed by the sea. He had to do this. He would die if he did not. Besides, what was killing a wolf to a Stark that did not deserve the name? With his now free hand Ned reached for the beast’s neck preparing to stab it with his spear of frozen fire. The wolf stopped him before he could grasp its fur, its tongue lolled out licking his hand with playful affection. 

He stilled, feeling the tickles on his hand. The tears streamed down his face. His grip tightened on the shard of stone. No, he could not do it. Something was wrong with all of this; he could feel it in his bones. The wolf had done nothing to deserve death. Even if it wasn’t human, Ned knew he couldn’t swing this sword. No, he would rather die on this beach.  
His legs gave way and his side stung painfully. There were droplets on the pebbles that weren’t from sea foam. ‘You useless child,’ Rickard Stark spat, ‘you can’t even save yourself. I wouldn’t even give you the scraps only worthy of dogs. Kill the wolf and save your self-respect.’ 

Ned could not speak, he only wailed. He clutched his knees and fell on his side. Great sobs wracked him; each sending knew knives in his ribs. He lay an eternity this way.

A new sharp sound, roaring over fire and sea, flew over him. Its shadow plunged into the fire burning father. Ned looked on unbelieving through swimming eyes as fire of a thousand colour furled and unfurled collapsing in black smoke. The figures before him erupted in darkness that swept over Ned. He clasped his eyes closed, waiting for a gruesome fate. 

Ned felt flapping near his face and a terrible angry cawing. His eyes shot open to see a crow in front of him. A hand touched the feather that had fallen in front of him. It felt real, on the other hand, Brandon had seemed to pass him the obsidian. There was no sign of the apparitions now only the grey mist that lasted for ever. 

The crow paused then hopped to his hands smothering the dragonglass with its face. Ned did not move. The black beggar was silent as it drew away hopping towards a lone large stone a dozen feet away. Blood scattered on the pebbles as it hopped. Its cut out its own eye, Ned thought in consternation, what in the blazes is happening. The world is mad.

Ned crawled along the trail of blood. His wolf drew up beside him and Ned swung his arm of frozen steel grasping its neck as strong as he could. He was pulled along as much he moved himself. The crow stopped on the stone, more of a boulder really. A metre across, the stone was shaped as a shallow bowl, sinking deep into the pebbled beach, the crow lay itself in the middle. It filled with blood, looking more an altar than anything from nature. The queer acting bird lay there waiting for its fate, calm. Its one remaining eye stared at him and Ned detected something in the eye he recognised from a far off dream.

Banishing the thought, the son of Winterfell raised the shard of glass and brought it low. The crow died quickly. Ned did not care for waiting he grabbed the dead bird’s neck and bit, drinking iron blood and savouring the taste as if it was the finest feast. After messy sips he skinned it best he could, returning to the cave with new energy to cook his first meal for what felt like years. He split the meal with the wolf, fortunately it was a well sized bird and though Ned wasn’t full when he finished, the worst of his hunger had abated. Needless to say, they wasted none of the crow. 

 

He sat by his fire even after he had finished eating. It seemed now that the gods thought he had passed his trial, the fog began to clear, in the early evening Ned could see the sky and the other islands near him. Longsister was to the west and Littlesister to the east. It was another piece of luck, him washing up on Sweetsister; Sisterton on the island had a port so all Ned needed to do was find a ship to the North. Ships sailing to White Harbor should be common with the island’s location and finding men loyal to the Stark’s or Arryn’s should be easy. Ned would still keep his wits about him, the Grafton’s hadn’t been loyal to the Arryn’s, and there were potential Targaryen loyalists here also, even if they were outnumbered. 

It was only a short wait until Ned heard some sound from up the cliffs. Someone had tracked the smoke to his cave on the beach. Ned looked with squinting eyes, there was still enough light to see but the son had begun its journey below the horizon. A man with a thick grizzled beard looked down on him, grey hairs spotted his face but most of his hair was brown. He wore the simple clothes of a farmer, or any other smallfolk. ‘What are you doing on the beach?’ the man asked, ‘the weathers been so shit it seems an odd choice of home.’ He barked a laugh at Ned’s expense.

‘I was on a ship bound for White Harbor, before we capsized in the storm.’ Ned replied. 

‘Storm, there ain’t been no storm for two months at least, only this gods damned sleet and mist.’ That couldn’t be right. Ned had been on the beach for less than a week. If the last storm was that long ago there was no way he could be lost at sea for so long and still live. It did not matter if how he came to be here, only that he was. The man stared at him as his wolf padded up next to him, ‘seems winter’s come again, so the storms have stopped for a time, soon the thicker snows will reach here.’ 

‘Could you help me up the cliffs? I still need to make it to the North.’ Ned would not trust anyone here with his identity unless it was needed. Better to save it till he tried to board a ship.

‘Of course lad, I’ve got me rope with me; just let me tie it down. I’ll pull your dog up too,’ He stepped back out of sight, returning a few metres to the left with a thick rope throwing it down to Ned. 

It was the wolf’s turn first and Ned tied the rope securely through his grey fur. ‘Stay calm,’ he whispered to the beast as it was lifted up the cliff. Its feet scurried on the loose stone kicking up the loose rocks in a shower of starry shingle. 

Once the wolf reached the top he heard the farmer gave a shout, ‘quite the beast you got here,’ his hands were shaky as he untied the rope. The wolf, for his part, seemed unbothered and sat on the top of the cliff looking down at him with fiery eyes, like twin setting suns.

Ned then tied it round his own waist and began to climb the man helping to pull him up. It made the climb easier, but it was still no easy task with his injury. When he reached the top he collapsed on his back struggling for breathe. The farmer unknotted a wineskin from his side and gave it to Ned who nodded his thanks drinking deeply. It was a bitter brew in the skin, but it would be unlikely for a farmer to have clean water or a finer beverage. Either way, it was the best thing that Ned had drunk during his stay on Sweetsister. 

‘Thank you,’ Ned said finally, ‘I’m sorry I haven’t asked your name.’ His wolf licked at his palm and Ned cupped his hand pouring the beer into his hand for it to lap at. 

‘Names Tris, an’ no need for your apologies,’ the man said gruffly, ‘who are you then?’

Ned took another sip, thinking of a fake name. He didn’t like to lie and knew if the man was sharp he’d see plain as day on his face. ‘People call me Ben,’ Tris looked at him for a long time; Ned kept his face stony as well.

‘Well if you’re still needing to go North, I’ll get you to Sisterton. You can catch your ship there.’ Tris passed him a long stick to support himself on, walking to a lonely house and mill on the cliff top. It was covered in muddy grass and draped with snow that could appear and disappear day by day. Goats were spotted around on the hilly grass. It seemed Tris was a goat farmer then. ‘I’ve got me a mule and a cart, so you won’t be walkin’ for long, just make sure your beast stays quiet, the mule’s a flighty thing.’

Once Ned and his wolf were comfortable on the cart they preceded on a muddy track, Ned covered in a rough but warm blanket. It seemed that they were not so far from Sisterton and they’d only be on the track an hour or two. ‘What can you tell me about that last storm, were any other ships destroyed?’ Ned thought of the ship, of the fisherman and his daughter. Did they live?

‘Still thinking your ship broke then, huh. I’m telling you that just ain’t possible. The sea water must have addled your senses.’ Tris laughed again, he seemed an easy man even when he spoke serious and roughly. ‘To tell you the truth there was some bustle round here after that last storm. Apparently someone washed up claiming some high lord had been on the ship with ‘em. Old Borrell sent his men out on orders of Lord Sunderland to tell us to look for him. Not a sign though, he must be dead in the water. Or,’ the farmer squinted, ‘you sure you ain’t him, are you?’

‘No’ Ned said with force and Tris roared with laughter. On the inside he was glad that at least one other from the ship must have survived. His wolf growled lowly at his side, a clear sign of house Stark. It would be difficult to stay anonymous, but he wouldn’t abandon such a clear sign from the gods. 

‘Good,’ he replied, they sat in silence for a while. ‘I’ll be taking you to Breakwater, if you got business you’ll want to do it there, rather than Sisterton proper. There’s a shithole if you’ve ever seen one.’

They continued on their winding path past for goat farms, seemed the island proper was used for little else. When they reached Sisterton, Ned was glad to go to the overlooking keep instead. Sisterton was surrounded by a rank and rotting stench. It was built of small hovels with low light, the buildings only visible due to the large night lamp ablaze above it. Breakwater, though, was a sizable keep built on water’s edge with a deep dug moat flowing with seawater. Where it met the sea the keep was built on shadowed arches great basalt stone. The only entrance was a large drawbridge; Ned was surprised that he had only seen larger ones half a dozen times. This was the fortress that guarded the Bite, perhaps it was no wonder it was so large. 

Tris threw the blankets over Ned and the wolf again telling him to be quiet before talking in hushed tones to the guards at the portcullis. He’d acted so quickly Ned hadn’t had time to ask why. He strained his ears, but couldn’t hear a word of what the conversation was about. Ned didn’t like it but he was unarmed and injured, he would have to stay silent for now busying himself by stroking the wolf’s fur to calm him. They were waved in quickly and the cart rattled over the uneven drawbridge. The torchlight barely sifted through the threadbare blankets but Ned could tell when they moved inside a side wing of the keep. 

Ned felt a jab to his side and took it as a sign to remove the blankets. He and Tris were alone in a large hollow hall lit by torchlight, though it was clear there were not enough for the room to feel warm. Ned stayed near the cart his hand resting on his wolf’s head. He looked to the bearded man with a questioning look.

‘Lord Borrell will get you where you need to go,’ Tris answered the silent question. Four guards entered silencing anymore of Ned’s questions. They didn’t seem surprised to see Ned though. After a long uneasy wait the doors opened and two men dressed in fine night clothes came out followed more guards in mail and some other servants. The older of the men looked well into his dotage and the other already middle aged, there was a clear resemblance between them. They were presumably Lord Borrell and a son of his. 

‘This better be worth waking the castle for Tristifor,’ the man growled at Tris. He was large with barely a neck and chin, with veins standing out dark and red on white wherever Ned could see.

‘I’d say Lord Stark is important enough milord,’ Tris gruffly replied. The man’s eyes sped over him and the wolf, with fear and surprise at the latter. 

Ned‘s head whipped to Tris at the statement, ‘You knew?’

Tris gave him a rough slap on the shoulder, ‘you’re not the best liar tell you truth. I recognised your accent from me hedge knight days and your wolf makes it clear.’

‘And even more conclusively,’ The Lord spoke lowly, ‘a former shipmate has been gifted my hospitality and vouched for you as well,’ he said waving to one servant, a new household servant if Ned judged correctly. He recognised the girl, and recalled the name as if through a thick cloud, Marya. She was the daughter of the fisherman who had agreed to take him to White Harbor. He’d given them far more silver than the journey was worth, or at least that’s what Ned had thought at the time. Now the silver was lost and all she was left with was an empty grave for her father. The girl would not talk with Ned here and her eyes looked fearfully at his wolf.

The older man laughed lowly with little humour, ‘well if this is true, it seems I must introduce myself. I’m Jasper Borrell and this is my son Godric.’ He flapped a hand at his son, and then turned to one of the guards, ‘

‘I’m Eddard Stark my lord,’ Ned tested, not used to calling himself a lord. His wolf jumped down beside him its eyes of fiery coals surveying the room, even the guards shrunk at its gaze. Lord Jasper swept his arm again and the guards and servants, with Marya, filed out. Only Ned, Tris, Lord Borrell and his son remained. 

‘Now tell me Lord Stark,’ Lord Borrell said, he pointed a finger at Ned, his fingers were webbed. Even though he knew little of the Three Sisters, Ned had heard many tales of the Sistermen, rumours of smuggling and piracy. Among the oddest was what was called the mark, the webbed hands that some of the island exhibited. Some in legend said that the men on the island had mated with merlings. There were similar legends all around central Westeros from the dawn age, but no evidence as stark as the mark. But even so, Ned did not put much stock in it. ‘The King wanted your head, but now believes that you drowned in the Bite. If I let you go his rage may burn the Sisters. He will think we tricked him, and let you live so you could kill him. Why should we risk that and not bring him your head instead?’

Ned mulled over the words as if they were wine. There could be no comfort in war, even for the victor. ‘I cannot promise you that I will win the war. Or that if I don’t, that Aerys won’t kill you. All that is certain is that winter is coming. I will try to kill him and I’ll try to protect the Sisters. And if I succeed, just think.’ Ned himself did not know what he meant by that. This rebellion would mean a lot to different people. For him vengeance, but he’d let Lord Borrell see what he wished. 

‘If I am to help you, I need something in return, a sign that we will not be abandoned to the Crown’s rage.’ Lord Borrell stated, angling for support. Ned would give him what he wanted. He would not have all the people of the Sisters on his conscience as well. 

‘I’ll have the Manderly’s arm all the ships they can to help you.’ Ned said. He knew Lord Wyman as a cautious but honest man. He may not like it but he’d accept that his ships had to be sent.

‘Not enough. If your cause fails they’ll be too worried about protecting their own. No I need a marriage to us to the Manderly’s, or one of their closer houses.’

‘You want me to accept that on their behalf without asking them first.’ Ned’s words burned hot as ash in his throat.

‘They are your bannermen, they will do their duty. I’ll send my son Godric and his children with you, to ensure you make these betrothals.’ Lord Jasper spat, but spoke the truth.

‘I can hardly refuse you and will do as you request,’ Ned did not approve of him using the war to his benefit, but understood the Lord’s need for protection. This castle could be defended against many but a royal host would be unstoppable against the Sistermen. ‘I would enjoy sleep and warm food, if you would ask nothing else of me?’ 

‘I would like to know how you survived so long on Sweetsister so long without being found.’ Lord Borrell sounded honestly interested to know.

‘If you would believe me, I washed up four days ago, though Tris said there was no way that I could have survived the storm if so.’

‘True, I ain’t ever seen the like,’ Tris brought himself to the fore. ‘Saw a lot of people drown in the Nine Penny Kings and none of them got up and walked after a day, let alone two months. Must be the gods like you.’ 

‘Seems our Lady of the Waves is sweet for you,’ Lord Jasper growled as if sarcastic, but there was a fondness in his voice. Then he glanced at the wolf, ‘or those old gods of yours.’  
‘If that is true, then I am glad the gods support my cause as righteous,’ Ned replied, his mouth made a sharp line of a sword. If the gods willed it his blade would come for the Mad King.


End file.
